I'm letting you know up front that this entry is solely for the purpose of venting; read it at your own risk!
We had fun at a beach bonfire last night. The kids had an amazing time. By the time we left they were really worn out, and all fell asleep in the car. However, none of them slept in this morning, and all are pretty disagreeable. Keira bit Luke's face (luckily, not too badly). The screaming started five minutes into our day. Where was my husband in all this? He was getting ready for work, but he did hear everything that was going on.
So, why do I need to vent? Because, on his way out the door, my husband had the NERVE to tell me he wanted me to do a chore for him, with all of the kids in tow, despite the day I was already having. And, on top of that, he had the GALL to be upset with me, when I told him I could not do it. I won't go into the details of the task he wanted me to complete, but it should be pointed out that we had already discussed who's responsibility it would be to complete it (his), if it needed to be done. I'm feeling very unappreciated by "The Husband Who Never Goes Anywhere Except the Park and His Parents' With All Three Kids." He has never even been shopping with all three, which is what I am contemplating the need to accomplish today.
Now, here I sit, with three cranky kids, looking at the HUGE pile of laundry on my service porch floor. That pile does not include the sandy bed sheets from the kids' beds. What sits at the bottom of that pile? Oh, that would be the wad of MUDDY clothes and towels that my husband left there for me after the mud run he participated in yesterday. Yes, he lovingly deposited the pile on the floor, near the washing machine. Would he lift a finger to wash those himself? Never. And, today after work, he will leave his uniform somewhere in our room, expecting me to have it cleaned for him by Wednesday, when he goes back to work again. Hmmm...the muddy clothes will get done because I cannot stand to have those nasty things lying around. But the uniform? We'll see...
